


beauty and charm

by IceisAwesome



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Birth Control, Developing Relationship, F/M, Loss of Virginity, Ned Stark Lives, No Underage Sex, Older Man/Younger Woman, Older Sansa Stark, POV Multiple, Sansa is 18, Warg Sansa Stark, Weddings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2019-04-11
Packaged: 2019-06-23 14:41:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 13,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15608523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IceisAwesome/pseuds/IceisAwesome
Summary: After the death of her direwolf Sansa Stark grows disillusioned with the idea of marrying the prince. Eventually she comes up with a daring plan: claim she's bedded someone else to break off the betrothal.However, even the best plan goes awry.





	1. Prologue

Lady Stark was easy to read.

Oh, she probably thought herself capable of fooling the court-and she may have fooled some-but Varys did not attain his position by being a fool.

He can see how her loving smiles directed at the prince are painfully false, he can see how her twittering compliments are nothing but lies. She plays the part of a young girl that fancies herself in love quite well, but Varys knows enough and sees enough to know the prince repulses her.

Lady Stark was easy to read, was not even close to understanding the full complexities of the game, so he’s surprised, for the first time in a long while, when she finds him.

“Lord Varys,” the little bird chirps, dipping into a curtsey before looking up at him with pale blue eyes.

Exchanging the usual pleasantries is simple enough and he starts to move away, stopping when the lady steps along alongside him.

“If it pleases you,” Lady Stark starts, “I was wondering if you might take a walk through the gardens with me.”

_Well._

It’s curiosity that has him offer her a smile, simple curiosity that has them walk among the roses, Varys patiently waiting as the lady gathers her thoughts.

“I am betrothed to Prince Joffrey,” is what she finally says, stating the obvious.

“And I wish you many happy years together,” The Spider responds with a smile, following Lady Stark to a spot he knows is well secluded.

“People talk,” the girl says after settling down on one of the elegant chairs, gaze caught on the sea below. “The court talks about Joffrey-and the court talks about you.”

“My lady?”

“There…there are very few ways for someone to-” Sansa’s voice drops to a whisper then, “to avoid a betrothal. I’ve found a way, but I need your help.”

_“My lady-”_

“Not like that!” She hisses out, voice scandalized and pale skin flushing red.

“My apologies,” the girl says after a moment of silence, turning to look at him, hands twisting in her skirts.

“If-if my plan goes well, my father and the king will summon you to see if what I say is true.”

“And you want me tell them you speak truly,” Varys finishes.

“Aye,” the lady confirms. “I have-” Sansa swallows, nerves apparent, before pulling parchment from her dress.

“I know you trade in whispers. If you swear to do this-if you lie for me-I will give you some of the correspondence my father hid.”

He can only stare for a moment, finding himself impressed by the sheer audacity of the girl, before he begins to think. With enough time and patience he could have found the man’s correspondence, it’s true, but he also sees the fear in her eyes. He can see the girl knows of Joffrey’s character, that she knows full well her father can’t protect her from the north.

“My lady,” he answers with a neat little bow, “it would be my honor.”

It is not until Sansa Stark is out of view, fiery hair disappearing beyond the roses, that Varys finds himself abruptly stifling a laugh.

The lady’s plan was clear, even just from what she implied, and-well-there are only so many men she is spending time with.

Varys finds himself smiling as he tucks the papers into his robes.

Whatever happens next should be quite the delightful scandal. 


	2. Flashback

Something in her had changed the day Lady died.

No, that’s not quite right. Something in her had died after watching the blade sink into her sweet dire-wolf’s neck.

Her lovely Lady died, and it was all Joffrey’s fault. If Joffrey hadn’t taunted-if Joffrey hadn’t threatened-

Her wolf is dead because of him. Part of her is missing, part of her feels empty, all because of her betrothed. All because of the handsome prince she dreamed of.

She can’t break off the betrothal. Not when the King ordered it himself, not when father has already agreed. Not when she flowered a few years ago.

* * *

Sansa is trapped, sworn to a boy she already half hates, so she does the only thing she can.

She listens. 

Sansa listens when Myrcella confides, in hushed whispers, how Joffrey hurts her and Tommen. Sansa comforts Tommen when she finds him crying, when he sobs that his own brother had tried to skin his kittens.

Sansa listens, and fear joins the brewing hate.

Time with her betrothed is unavoidable, especially when their wedding is only a few months away, but Sansa has listened to the rumors. She knows the prince shares his mother’s hatred for his uncle-the one they call the Imp. Sansa admits his knowing gaze unsettles her, his crude japes make her flush, but if it means Joffrey doesn’t follow her, she will happily spend time with him.

The man knows what she’s doing, it’s obvious when she sees the sympathy in his eyes, but he still allows her to stay. Lord Lannister orders her lemoncakes and teases her, much like Robb and Theon did. It doesn’t erase the fear or the ugly hate she holds, but it does make her relax.

Father would disapprove of her spending time with Lord Tyrion and his lover, but she’s promised not to tell Father about Arya sneaking away if her sister does the same for her, and she knows the courtiers that have noticed won’t care about anything that doesn’t involve them.

* * *

A moon has passed since they arrived in King’s Landing, the wedding draws closer, and Sansa finds herself hesitating as she braids Lady Shae’s hair, fingers slowing as she ponders just what to say.

“Lady Shae?” Sansa finally ventures, withdrawing her hand as Lord Tyrion’s lover turns to look at her. (Shae is no lady, of course, but Sansa likes the way the woman smiles when she says it.)

“You and Lord Tyrion-” Sansa swallows, forcing the words out. “You’re lovers.”

“That’s true,” Shae responds, curiosity plain on her face.

“My mother,” and she can’t resist the blush that paints her cheeks as she struggles to find her words. “My mother spoke briefly of-of what would happen on the wedding night, but she didn’t-I want to be-”

Shae’s look of curiosity has turned into wry amusement, and the woman smiles gently in response.

“Sansa,” she starts, taking hold of her hands, “do you know what a whore is?”

She flushes even more at that, mouth opening before she can think. “They’re women who…who are paid to lay with men.”

Shae hums thoughtfully at that, withdrawing her hands. “Men too, but yes, they’re those paid to lay with whoever has the most coin.”

Sansa stares, wondering just why Shae is telling her this, before it clicks into place, before the japes make sense.

_“Oh.”_

Tyrion’s lover-Tyrion’s  _whore_ -laughs again before settling against the couch, braided hair cascading down her back.

“Just what did your mother tell you?”

“She-” Sansa can’t help it, she looks down at her hands, unwilling to see the look on Shae’s face. “She told me about-about down there. She told me about…how a child is made. But-” Sansa hesitates then, “after arriving at court-I think she left some things out.”

“Well,” Lady Shae starts, “you know the basics, at least.”

“I-” Sansa looks up to meet her eyes, face still a fiery red. “I know that I have to lay with a man to make a heir, but…that can’t be all, can it?”

Her mother has five children. There has to be more to it, there has to be a reason they didn’t stop at Robb or Sansa herself.

Shae’s smile turns wry at that, the woman letting out a sigh before speaking again.

“If it’s done right, it’ll feel good. No-if it’s done right, it’ll be the best thing you’ll ever feel.”

_Joffrey won’t do it right._

The thought slips across her mind, followed up an even worse thought, one she’s been avoiding.

Once they’re married, once Joffrey wraps his cloak around her, Joffrey can do as he likes. Joffrey can do what he likes with her body, and Sansa somehow knows the prince won’t be gentle.

Clumsily standing and dropping into a nervous curtsy before Shae, Sansa turns and flees. 

* * *

Sansa knows she isn’t a good liar. She’s known that for years, ever since she tried to blame a broken plate on Arya.

Still, she does her best to smile and nod as Joffrey prattles on, to hide the revulsion she feels at the thought of his hands on her most intimate of places.

It’s after their talk, too, that Sansa starts to notice the other men at court. She’d only meant to look, only meant to see if any of them were truly appealing.

It’s then that she notices the way some look at her, it’s then that she notices the way Lord Baelish eyes her.

He hasn’t touched her, hasn’t done anything inappropriate, but the way his eyes linger makes her skin crawl, makes her want to scrub herself red and raw in the bath.

* * *

Shae is braiding her hair, listening as Sansa tells her all the gossip she’s heard from passing courtiers, when a man she doesn’t know walks in.

Sansa tenses momentarily, worrying he might be from the queen or Joffrey, before she notices his garb. Dressed in travel worn leathers and dirty boots, he’s not one of their men. Not when Cersei and Joffrey pride themselves on dressing everyone in their household in the finest armor and clothes.

“Shae,” the man greets, gaze moving to Sansa then, “milady.” It’s only a greeting but she can still hear the question in his voice. She’s spared from answering by the sound of Tyrion waddling behind him, a smile gracing his face when he sees Shae.

“Sansa, this is Bronn. I’ve decided to hire a sellsword since my sister has started making even more creative threats.”

Sansa shifts her gaze back to him, eyeing the man curiously. She’s never met a sellsword, never seen a man who’s allegiance belongs to whoever pays the most.

“Bronn, you know Shae. The lovely girl next to her is Lady Sansa Stark, who’s taken to hiding from my nephew here.”

Tyrion starts talking again, chattering on about the latest scheme of the queen’s and the latest way Joffrey has managed to insult someone, but Sansa can still feel the sellsword’s eyes on her, can still remember his considering look after Tyrion spoke.

* * *

The next day she breaks the rules and doesn’t regret it, cutting into the servant’s passage to avoid Joffrey when she sees the gold cloaks coming her way.

She sneaks down the halls, thankful her slippers are nearly silent, when a gasp comes from ahead.

There’s a man there, pinning a serving girl against the wall, and even at a distance Sansa can see the fear in the girl’s eyes. She wants to help, wants to do something, anything, but she’s frozen. Frozen, until the girl wrenches a leg up and the man doubles over in pain, the girl acting quick and driving a knee into his stomach before smoothing down her skirts and walking away as the would-be rapist groans on the floor.

It’s then, turning to flee back down the corridor, that the idea first comes to her mind.

* * *

Father is worried. She can see it plainly, can see how he eyes her after a night of tossing and turning, but Sansa tries assuage his fears. She tells him it’s merely nerves about the upcoming wedding, just anxiety over the responsibilities of being queen, but she’s not sure he believes her.

Arya certainly doesn’t, judging by her disbelieving gaze, but her sister says nothing.

* * *

“Ser Bronn?”

The man turns to look at her, one brow raised.

“I’m no ser, girl, just another hired cutthroat.”

Sansa flushes at that, cursing herself for the silly mistake, before gathering her courage and looking him in the eye.

“Teach me how to fight.”

“What?” The man demands, the goblet of wine he was holding thudding onto the table, and Sansa is once again relieved Tyrion and Shae are gone.

Taking a deep breath, Sansa searches for the right words before speaking.

“I’m not stupid. I know the queen thinks so, and most of the court thinks so, but I’m  _not_. I see the way men look at me. I know what Joffrey likes.”

“I don’t-I don’t want to get hurt.”

He straightens at her words, searching her face for something, before he speaks again.

“And what’s in it for me?”

Sansa bites her lip, thinking it over, before speaking again. “I’ll ask Lord Tyrion to double whatever he pays you.” 

It’s a weak offer, something she knows he’ll reject, but the sellsword surprises her by nodding.

“That’s good enough.”

“You mean-”

“I’ll teach you how to fight. When I’m done there won’t be a cunt out there that’ll dare to touch you.”

She should be scandalized by his words, but all Sansa feels is a deep relief. Whatever else Bronn might be, his words ring true.

* * *

Sansa wakes gasping with a queer feeling of wetness running down her thighs.

Thinking back on the dream, she muffles a dismayed cry with one hand.

Calloused hands had slid down her legs, a low voice whispered endearments as he kissed down her neck.

She knows that voice, has grown used to it in the past month.

The sellsword isn’t even handsome, isn’t dashing or gallant like the knights from songs. And yet she still dreamed of him, still wanted his hands on her and his lips on her skin. Mayhaps it’s the way he looks at her, so unlike the other men at court. She knows he prefers women, he’s japed about it with Lord Tyrion, yet he still looks at her like she’s more than a pretty face.

He’s of age with her father or older, he’s grizzled and worn and kills people for coin, and yet Sansa still dreamed of him. Yet Sansa still finds herself wondering if he could ever return what she feels-at least until she remembers Joffrey.

_Joffrey._  With a sinking stomach she turns in bed, ignoring the ache between her thighs in favor of biting back tears.

* * *

The gossips are busy today. She’s only half listening to the rumors, but apparently a young lady disgraced herself after being found with a groomsman.

Sansa doesn’t think about it, not really, not until her daily lesson with Bronn, not until she stumbles and the sellsword takes advantage of her pause to hold a sword to her neck.

She only shakes her head when Bronn asks what she’s thinking about, accepting his skin of water with a gentle smile.

The young lady, she doesn’t know the name and doesn’t particularly care, will be forced to marry a man of lower birth, if she can even find a husband at all. Few lords are willing to wed a woman that’s no longer pure.

Aye, that’s true, just as the seven hells would become the seven heavens before a prince would accept a ruined bride. 

Turning to look at the man she's spent so much time with, a smile pulls at her lips. 

Perhaps she has a way out, after all. 


	3. Breakfast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't sleep so y'all are getting two chapters in one night!

The plan is far from perfect.

There’s still a chance Robert will force her to marry his son, still a chance Varys or Tyrion will reveal she has lied. (Oh, Bronn could reveal the truth as well, but no one will trust a sellsword.)

Still, it needs to be done. She needs to be free of Joffrey and free of the shackles this betrothal has placed her in.

The sun is already high in the sky on a sweltering King’s Landing morning when Sansa decides she can’t wait any longer. 

Dipping into a curtsy as she enters the royal chambers for breakfast, Sansa looks up to scan the room. Joffrey and his siblings are there, as expected, but she's surprised to see Lord Tyrion as well.

Biting back a frown as the queen sneers at her, Sansa sits down at the table and waits patiently for an opening, thankful she won’t have to seek the queen out. After all, if Cersei knows soon everyone in court will know, and that means Robert will have pressure to break the betrothal coming from all corners.

Robert isn’t there, not to her surprise-the king always sleeps late-but father is, looking decidedly uncomfortable as Ser Jaime smirks at him from the doorway. Sansa looks at him briefly, taking a moment to hope that he won’t see through her lies, before clearing her throat with a dainty cough.

Joffrey pulls away from his mother’s coddling at the noise, turning to smirk at her, and Sansa restrains a grimace. His smile is an ugly thing, full of barely hidden malice, and she finds herself comparing it to Bronn’s own smirk-the one that made her blush when she thought of it.

Quickly settling that worrying thought aside, Sansa straightens her shoulders and sets her hands in her lap, worrying at her lip before finally speaking.

“My prince, I am afraid I cannot marry you.”

The table falls silent at that. Myrcella and Tommen stopping their eager chattering to turn and look, Tyrion pausing in the middle of drinking his morning wine, even father freezing.

“I cannot marry you,” she continues before anyone can interrupt, “for I have laid with another man.”

That, predictably, is when all seven hells break loose.

* * *

He knew Sansa harbored doubts about her betrothal. Oh, Ned is sure she thinks she’s hidden it, but she is his daughter. He has raised her and held her and comforted her, he knows what to look for.

It only worries him further though, that his daughter that had once fancied the prince could now barely look at him. If Sansa, who once fancied herself in love with Joffrey, has so suddenly changed her opinion of the prince, something must have gone terribly wrong.

His daughter won’t tell him what, but Ned can’t shake the feeling it has something to do with the way the servants nervously scurry around Joffrey, with the way Robert is so dismissive of his own son.

Resolving to wait for her, he waits and waits, but still his daughter says nothing. Still Sansa pretends all is fine, and Ned has just decided to finally confront her when she straightens with all the dignity she possesses, placing down her cutlery and folding her hands in her lap.

He looks at his daughter curiously, wondering just what could bring the grim expression to her face, when his daughter speaks and his thoughts ground to a halt.

His mind is blank, he’s frozen, trying to will himself to comprehend her words, when the prince moves, already aiming to hit Ned’s own daughter.

Ned jumps to his feet, already eager to hit the boy, royalty or not, but Sansa effortlessly dodges the slap, moving quickly around the table and next to Myrcella and Tommen.

* * *

Holding a struggling Joffrey, not moving even as the prince kicks and tries to bite him, Ned finds himself missing Winterfell.

Life at Winterfell made sense, life at Winterfell meant his own sweet daughter would never endanger her chance at becoming queen by disgracing herself.

There’s still a chance at solving this calmly before Robert sweeps in, accompanied by two of his kingsguard.

His old friend stops, eyes roaming over the screaming queen and Ned holding his own son, stopping to look at Sansa’s own placid expression and the terror on the other children’s faces.

“What is going on?!” The king bellows, voice echoing down the corridors, and Cersei lets out a mocking laugh in response, a finger already moving to point at his daughter.

“The girl you wanted as a gooddaughter is nothing more than a whore,” the queen spits out, green eyes furious and mouth twisted into a bitter line.

Robert looks stunned, mouth opening and closing, before turning to look at Ned, still holding a struggling Joffrey.

“Sansa, informed us she has already lost her maidenhood. Your son tried to hit her in response.”

“As his right!” Cersei screams, not stopping even when Tyrion glares, not stopping until Robert steps up.

 _ **“ENOUGH!”**_   The king roars, face flushed with anger, before gesturing at one of the kingsguard to grab hold of his unruly son.

Stepping back after the guards grab hold of Joffrey, Ned turns to look back at Sansa, noting the faint trace of fear in her eyes before she lifts her head to look Robert in the eye.

“The queen is right. I have lain with a man and was,” his daughter stops, looking down to hide her eyes, “wracked with guilt. I know I am not worthy of being Joffrey’s queen, not after what I have done.”

“Sansa-” he starts, a question on his lips, but Sansa seems to have been expecting it.

“No, father. I was not forced. I was not raped.”

Another moment of silence, then, the kingsguard watching in fascination and the children looking confused, Joffrey heavily panting and Cersei looking ready to strangle her would be gooddaughter, before Robert speaks up.

“Who was it?” And oh, that is not good. Ned knows that tone, knows that Robert only goes quiet-truly quiet-when he is beyond enraged.

“A sellsword named Bronn. He is currently in Lord Tyrion’s employee.”

Yes, Ned decides as the king gapes and his own shock freezes him, he absolutely misses Winterfell. 


	4. Confrontation

_Seven Hells._

He’d suspected Lady Stark was planning something ever since she asked him to raise his sellsword’s pay. At least, he’d expected it until Bronn revealed he was only teaching the lady how to defend herself.

It only made sense, what with Joffrey’s proclivities and the danger always present in the King’s Landing streets. It was a foolish mistake, to let his guard down like that, but Tyrion cannot help admiring the sheer audacity of Lady Sansa’s plan.

Claiming she ruined herself before marriage? Claiming she laid with a sellsword? He never thought a Stark capable of such a deception, and yet here the lady is, false grief painted across her face.

His admiration is interrupted, however, by the king’s fury turning to him.

“Lannister!” The man roars, voice booming, “did you know of this?!”

Tyrion has never thought himself a good man, but he can’t tell the truth. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he denied Sansa Stark her only chance to escape the prince.

“Aye, your grace,” Tyrion says with false cheer, noting the way Sansa’s shoulders slump just slightly in relief when he speaks. “I figured Lady Stark could use some comfort before spending her days married to my nephew.”

“How dare-” his lovely sister starts before being interrupted by her brutish husband.

“I don’t care why the girl did it!” Robert bellows, eyes hardening before he shifts his gaze to Lady Stark. “Who else knows?” The king demands, and Sansa looks up, brushing a loose strand of her fiery hair behind her ear.

“I assume Lord Varys knows. And….and then there’s Bronn. I did my best to keep it secret, I _swear!_ ”

“Whore!” Joffrey cries out before wincing in pain as one of the kingsguard draws him back with a particularly vicious pull.

“Lannister!” Robert barks again, this time turning to Jaime. “Get the sellsword. Drag him here, if you have too.”

His brother hurries off to fulfill the king’s command, far more eager than usual, and Tyrion hides a smirk. Cersei wants the girl humiliated and his dear brother is only too happy to oblige.

What a pair of fools.

* * *

The whores of King’s Landing certainly know their trade.

That is the only thought running through his mind as he swaggers back into the keep, intent on finding a knight and beating the unlucky fucker into the dirt.

He’d just finished fucking, now all he needed was a good fight.

That’s his intention, anyways, at least until the fucking Kingslayer stands before him, hand draped over the hilt of his sword. Bronn goes to move around the man, half certain he’s just being fucked with, but Lannister moves to meet him, an insufferable smirk on his face.

“The king,” Lannister starts with poorly hidden glee in his voice, “wants a word with you.”

“Why?” He asks, searching his mind for anything that could have offended Robert-somehow he doesn’t think the king would particularly care about his lessons with Lady Stark, not after what he’s heard about her aunt. And the king spends his own days whoring, it’s not as though the man will judge him for that.

But Jaime-fucking-Lannister only smiles before speaking up. “I’m sure you know.”

“By the way,” the Kingslayer adds as two more guards stride down the hall, clearly there to escort him, “well done.”

* * *

Lady Stark is standing there, red hair done up in an elaborate braid, and he does his best to ignore the odd urge to run his fingers through the strands coming loose.

Turning, he catches sight of the cunt prince being manhandled by two of the kingsguard, sees the queen smiling cruelly and the hand of the king looking stunned. And there’s the king himself, fury in his eyes. Just for a moment Bronn thinks he catches a glimpse of Baratheon in his glory days.

But he finds himself more concerned with the look on Sansa’s face, with the fear in her eyes as she glances at him and the way her hands twist in the folds of her dress.

“Ser Bronn-”

“Cutthroat-”

Stopping, the hand and the king look at each other, silently communicating, before the king steps forward.

“Lady Stark,” and Baratheon spits her name in derision, something must have happened, “claims you bedded her.”

His first instinct is to protest, to maybe even chance his luck with the guards, but the wording catches him. Bedded, not raped. No, if she had said raped he’d already be short a head.

He’s clever, it only takes a moment to work out Sansa’s plan. She was clearly afraid of that vicious fucker, but he hadn’t expected something so bold. And it’s not as though anyone will believe the words of a sellsword over those of a highborn lady.

Beauty and brains, he only has a moment to muse, before Stark clears his throat.

Curling his lips into a leer and changing his stance into a swagger, Bronn laughs.

“Aye, I did. It’s not like I was going to resist a pretty one like her.”

tark looks like he’s about to run him through for that, clearly a protective father, but Sansa only flushes slightly, a pretty blush spreading across her cheeks. It takes effort to draw his eyes away from her-effort Tyrion has clearly noticed, if his wide grin is any indication.

“Don’t!” Sansa starts, eyes wide and pleading when the hand moves forward. “Please, father, don’t hurt him.”

It’s at least partly an act, he can tell that much, but he won’t deny a small part of him is pleased at the thought of a lady like Sansa worrying.

“Robert-” her father turns, staring at the king with expectant eyes, but the other man seems lost in thought.

“Sansa Stark,” the king finally bellows, forsaking her title in what Bronn knows is a deliberate insult, “you willingly dishonored yourself! You ruined your chance at marrying my son for a sellsword!”

“Your grace-” the lady starts, but Baratheon cuts her off with a wave of his hand.

“You have dishonored our houses with your actions, you have shamed your family-”

Sansa does her best impression of sorrow but Bronn knows her tells, knows the girl is biting back what’s surely a triumphant smile.

“This,” the king says with dark satisfaction, “is your reward.”

“Bronn of whatever shitheap you crawled out from-you’re hereby knighted. By royal decree, I pronounce you betrothed to Sansa Stark.”

The cunt prince and the queen laugh, Lord Stark looks stricken with dismay, but he finds himself focusing on Sansa. 

Sansa, with her red hair and her pale blue eyes, with the look of complete shock that slowly morphs into sheer embarrassment. 

At least he’s about to move up in the world. That is, if his goodfather doesn’t kill him first.


	5. Talks

This is completely humiliating.

Not the guards assigned to her or being confined to her chambers while her father went to talk to Lord Varys. No, she had expected something similar to happen after her announcement.

No, what makes her flush with humiliation is the shock on her betrothed’s face, the way he turned away from her as the guards escorted him, refusing to look her in the eyes.

It’s obvious, then, that the man doesn’t want to marry her. And Sansa knows she should be humiliated by a common sellsword being disgusted at the thought of marrying a highborn lady, but that is not what makes her duck her head in shame.

She’s fond of him, as impossible as that might seem to others. She’s fond of this man that makes crude japes and kills for coin, this man whose loyalty can be bought by whoever offers the most gold. He was a good teacher and someone she could talk to without judgement, he made her laugh and she can’t help admitting that she likes the way he looks (that she’s already cum to the thought of him.)

Sansa is fond of a common sellsword, as odd as that might be, but Bronn only reacted with disgust when faced at the thought of marrying her.

She’s ashamed, she’s humiliated, because at least part of her had hoped the man would return her attraction-if not her affection.

Eventually Sansa can stand the churning in her stomach and the way her thoughts drift no longer, setting down her embroidery and moving to the door.

“My lady-” one of the guards starts when she moves to leave, but she interrupts him.

“I am leaving.”

“My lady, I am afraid we cannot allow that,” the guard tells her, an expression of sympathy she just knows is fake on his face.

“Did my father explicitly order you to keep me confined to my chambers?” She asks with a raised brow, waiting as the guards look at each other.

“Well, no, my lady, but-” the second guard starts, only for her to ignore him.

“I am leaving, then. I assume you will be accompanying me?”

“Of course, my lady,” the second guard tells her after a glance at the other man, bowing briefly before they move to follow her.

* * *

She does her best to appear calm and unaffected as they wind through the corridors, as they move closer and closer to Lord Tyrion’s chambers. Truthfully, she has no idea where her betrothed might be, but his employer’s chambers is as good a place to look as any.

Finally they arrive, a polite tap on the door alerting whoever is inside.

The door swings open, then, and Sansa cannot help the small sigh of relief that comes when she sees Ser Bronn sitting at one of the tables, a goblet of wine in his hand.

“Lady Stark,” Tyrion says, drawing her attention to him as he stands in the doorway, “what an unexpected pleasure.”

“I want to talk to Ser Bronn,” she replies, ignoring the way her stomach clenches. “Alone,” she adds as an afterthought, moving to step through the door as Tyrion moves aside.

One of the guards interrupts then, already protesting, and she fixes him with her fiercest glare in response.

“Settle down!” Sansa snaps. “It’s not as though I can shame my family any further.”

That startles a laugh from Lord Tyrion, the man smiling at her before stepping out and letting the door thud closed behind him.

 _Deep breaths,_ Sansa has time to think.  _You have nothing to fear, not from him._

 _Nothing but rejection,_ a traitorous part of her mind responds.

Stepping forward on near silent feet, she does her best to appear collected, but judging by the way Bronn is eyeing her, she’s failing completely.

Settling into the chair opposite him, hands held stiffly in her lap and meeting his eyes with embarrassment plain on her face, Sansa shifts before speaking up.

“I’m sorry,” the words come tumbling out of her mouth before she can stop them, Sansa giving in to the urge to duck behind a curtain of hair when the sellsword tilts his head.

“I’m just…I’m sorry for forcing you into this, I’m sorry-I didn’t think the king would do this, I thought you could continue serving Lord Tyrion-”

“Sansa,” Bronn interrupts, still leaning against his chair in a lazy slouch. “I’m not mad at you. Surprised, but not mad.”

She looks at him, searching for signs of deception, for any hint he’s lying, but the man seems sincere. That lightens her heart, at least until another thought comes to her.

“If,” and Sansa licks her lips nervously, willing the words out. “If that’s true, I want you to promise me something.”

Pouring himself another goblet of wine, the sellsword settles back and waits silently, giving her time as she rolls her next words over.

“I don’t want you visiting whores or bedding anyone else,” she finally manages, straightening in an effort to appear confident.

The man drains his glass, still staring at her, before putting it down and leaning forward slightly. “You’re telling me you want me to fuck you?”

The words are crass but the question rings true, and Sansa forces herself to look at him. 

“Aye. Actually…” she starts then trails off, worried he might think her wanton, “I dreamed of you. You were touching me, and I woke up, and there was wetness between my thighs. I’ve wanted you, I’ve wanted your hands and your mouth on me ever since.”

The sellsword stares a moment, blue eyes darkening, before standing abruptly, kicking his chair over without a second thought.

Sucking in a breath, Sansa freezes as he strides over, as he leans down and his lips touch hers.

She can’t help it, she moans low, leaning into the kiss and opening her mouth. A keen escapes as his tongue slips in, as one hand moves to tangle through her hair.

 _More, more, more,_  Sansa thinks, half delirious from the way his stubble drags against her face, from the hand tangled in her hair and the other grazing against her neck, from the heat building between her thighs.

Eventually he pulls back to gasp for air, though he smiles down at her when Sansa moans again, trying to chase the touch as he moves his hands away.

“You do want this,” Bronn says, sounding insufferably pleased, and she would roll her eyes if she was in any state to think coherently.

“I want you,” Sansa corrects him, staring up at him with lidded eyes and slightly swollen lips.

“I won’t fuck anyone else,” he tells her, leaning down and idly rubbing circles on her exposed collarbone, smirking again as she leans into the touch of his calloused hands.

With difficulty and what feels like a heroic amount of effort, she pulls away from his touch, reaching out to hesitantly place a hand over his.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Sansa admits reluctantly, ashamed to reveal her ignorance. “I don’t know how to make a marriage work. But I’m fond of you, and I’d like to you to try to return my affections.”

“Sansa,” Bronn laughs, the lines on his face crinkling as he leans against the table, arms moving to pull her onto his lap, “I want you."

Their mouths meet again just as the door thuds open, just as Sansa looks up to see her father striding through the door.

His grey eyes widen before narrowing in fury, and she feels a brief stab of fear. Bronn can defend himself, of course, but there’s still the chance father will send him away.

“Leave,” father bites out, moving aside as she reluctantly slides off her betrothed’s lap, taking a moment to run her fingers through her hair and straighten her skirts. Aiming a shy smile at Bronn, she moves away and through the door, stopping just outside.

Lord Tyrion is standing there, clearly smirking at her state of disarray, but she finds it hard to care. It’s hard to care when her betrothed just confessed to wanting this marriage, when her first kiss was like  _that._


	6. Protective

In all his wildest dreams, Bronn had never even considered a pretty highborn maiden confessing to cumming to the thought of him. But she is, flame red hair falling in a curtain around her face as she peeks up at him.

He doesn’t even consider resisting temptation when she confesses, moving forward eagerly to kiss her and see just what she tastes like.

She moans and it sends a jolt straight to his cock, the girl pushing up against him and opening her mouth to let him in. It’s hard not to laugh when she chases his touch when he pulls away, clearly intent on more, but he manages it.

His betrothed’s eyes are clouded with lust, her chest is heaving and her lips are swollen, and that’s not even the start. She’s looking at him like she wants to be devoured, like all she wants is for him to take her then and there, and for the first time in a long time he can’t imagine paying for a fuck.

It’s no great challenge to swear off whores, not when Sansa is looking at him like  _that._

It’s hard to believe this isn’t a dream. It’s hard to believe when he has a highborn beauty saying she wants him to fuck her, even saying she’s  _fond_  of him. It feels like a dream when he pulls her onto his lap, when his hands settle around her curved waist and her mouth meets his with a charming desperation.

Predictably, since nothing in life ever goes as fucking planned, her father interrupts.

Bronn shifts in his seat as she smiles and takes her leave, willing his erection away. Sansa doesn’t notice but Stark does, judging by the look of disgust on the man’s face.

There’s no use trying to appease the man-and there’s no fun in it-so Bronn falls back into the chair his betrothed vacated, settling his body into a lazy slouch designed to make the man angry. 

Stark glares at him, looming in a clear attempt to look threatening, before finally speaking.

“I don’t believe Sansa would dishonor herself with a sellsword,” the lord tells him, voice low and angry, but he only smirks in response.

“You’re free to believe what you want,” Bronn says agreeably, “but you’re not going to break off this match.”

“And why not?” The lord challenges him, pacing closer, and he doesn’t hide the way his smirk widens. Angry men make mistakes, angry men are easy to unsettle, and Stark is furious.

“Because,” and he slouches against the chair then, bringing up his legs and kicking them onto the table. “I’m the only thing getting your daughter away from this shitheap of a city and that blonde cunt.”

“And,” he adds before Stark can speak further, “I’m no expert on all your fancy folk matters, but the stain of Sansa’s actions means that little sister of hers won’t be replacing her, doesn’t it?” 

“Seems like you should be paying me,” he drawls, unable to resist taunting his goodfather, “since I’m getting both your daughters out of King’s Landing.”

The hand stares at him, visibly unsettled, before a frown replaces the glare on his face.

“If you hurt her-” his goodfather starts, but Bronn interrupts before he can continue.

“If I hurt her, it’ll be because she asks. Now, do you actually want something or are you just here to threaten me?”

Stark looks disgusted for a moment at the obvious implication, and he finds himself wondering if the man will try to hurt him, before he steps away.

Pouring another goblet of wine, a satisfied smile spreads across his face.

His goodfather might hate him, true, but he doesn’t give a fuck about that. Not when he has the memory of Sansa flush against him, not when he can look forward to a lifetime spent with a beauty to fight and fuck.

 


	7. Sisters

“I don’t understand.”

Arya had been quiet, unusually so, as they packed and readied to leave the city. Normally she would feel relief but she knows her sister, knows the silence was only a prelude for a conversation she’s loathe to have.

“What?” She asks her sister, fingers absently picking at the stitches of the embroidery she’d never finished.

“Why are we leaving? Father says it’s for your wedding, but you aren’t marrying  _Joffrey_ ,” she replies, spitting the prince’s name with, in Sansa’s opinion, all the derision he deserves. “And the nobles say you’re ruined, but I don’t know what that means.”

Letting out a sigh, wishing that someone-anyone-would interrupt, she turns to look at her sister.

“Did mother tell you about what happens in a marriage? How heirs are made, I mean?”

Arya stares at her, still uncomprehending, but she nods.

“Well, if we let a man that isn’t our betrothed…touch us,” she tells her sister, willing her to understand what she can’t say, “before marriage, we are dishonoring ourselves.”

Her sister opens her mouth, pauses, and then looks at her with wide eyes. “You didn’t-” Arya breathes with something approaching shock, and she leans in close, fearful of being overheard.

“Joffrey is a monster,” she whispers, not bothering with softening the blow. “He is a monster, and I would not-could not-let him have me. You know I was spending time with Lord Tyrion. Well, I was also spending time with his sellsword. I told the king I had bedded Bronn to avoid the match, and the king arranged a marriage between us as a sort of punishment for shaming his son.”

“But you didn’t,” her little sister says, conviction in her voice, and Sansa frowns in response.

“Mayhaps, but they cannot know that. By marrying Bronn I can escape Joffrey’s clutches, and I can save you from being betrothed into the royal family.”

Arya still doesn’t seem to understand, though, so she does her best to explain.

“By saying I laid with a common sellsword, I dishonored our house as well. The king won’t want you for either of his sons, not after what I’ve done. I will marry Bronn, and you will be free to stay in the North. When you do marry,” she adds belatedly, “it will be to a Northern lord eager to allow you your freedom in exchange for the goodwill of House Stark.”

Her little sister stares for a moment, grey eyes wide, before throwing herself forward, arms wrapping around her in a clumsy attempt at an embrace.

Sansa freezes at the touch, mind going blank, before Arya pulls back, a crooked smile spread across her face.

“You’re the best sister, you know,” Arya tells her, still smiling widely, and Sansa laughs.

“I’m your only sister,” Sansa teases in return, tone light, before laughing as Arya rolls her eyes.

“Just shut up and take the compliment, all right?”

“Of course,” she starts, before continuing, a glint in her eye, “as my lady commands.”

Letting out a shocked laugh at the tease, Arya reaches over to snatch the embroidery Sansa had been stitching, laughter growing louder as Sansa digs an elbow into her chest, taking advantage of her shock to grab it back.

It’s thoroughly undignified, mother would be absolutely horrified if she saw her daughters roughhousing like a pair of  _boys_. But Sansa finds it hard to care, not when she’s laughing with her sister for the first time in what feels like forever.

Not when father strides in shock, on his face, as Arya laughs when she falls to a jab in her stomach, as her little sister smirks up at her as she reaches over and tucks back a curl of unruly hair.

Sansa is getting a husband, true, but it seems she is also gaining a sister.

* * *

His talk with Lord Varys had been educational. Almost painfully so, in fact. 

Ned knew his eldest daughter was devoted to House Stark. Aye, she practically embodied the words of her mother’s former house.

Sansa knew her duty well, she would not shame her family. She wouldn’t, not unless she had no other choice.Something drastic would cause her to shirk her duty, something unspeakable would have to happen for Sansa to lie like that. 

So he went to the eunuch, eager for the answers Sansa would not give him. The Spider, normally a man that spoke in riddles, hadn’t minced words when he spoke of Joffrey’s deviancy. The man made it clear Robert ignored the lad’s behavior while Cersei did nothing to stop it, opting to coddle the boy instead.

His daughter was sweet and gentle but she was studious as well, she must have realized that Ned wouldn’t be able to break the betrothal.

His sweet daughter had no other choice, and so she shamed their family to save herself.

The worst part of this mess, though, is that Ned cannot find it in himself to be mad. True, Robert will likely dismiss him as hand for the perceived slight against his son. And it is true House Stark will likely be the laughingstock of the South for years to come.

But Sansa has saved herself from what would be an unhappy marriage at best, while also ensuring Arya would be able to stay in the North.

His girl should have anticipated Robert’s retaliation, but she is still young and untested despite being a woman flowered, he cannot fault her for that.

He only prays the sellsword knows better than to shame her.

* * *

It is the second day since they have departed King’s Landing and she has already had enough of the wheelhouse. Arya is proving to be surprisingly pleasant company, but Sansa still finds herself uncomfortable when travelling in a cramped box that rolls when the road is difficult, only seeing sunlight through small slits.

An idea comes, then, as Arya’s snores echo in the wheelhouse and Sansa does her best to discreetly wipe a bit of her sister’s drool off her own shoulder.

It is unladylike, it is the sort of thing mother would frown on. But, and Sansa feels a thrill of shame and excitement at the realization, she  _has_  just thoroughly shamed House Stark. No one will care about her leaving the wheelhouse, not when they are too busy gossiping about her allegedly ruining herself.

“Arya,” she hisses, gently shaking at her sister’s shoulder.

“Wha-” her sister blinks awake, eyes bleary. “Are we there?” She mumbles, reaching up to rub at her eyes.

“We’re a few days away. But we’ve stopped, and I thought we could take two of the spare palfreys.”

Her sister gapes, and Sansa knows what she’s thinking, knows she has trouble believing her prim and proper sister would suggest such a thing.

But Sansa has realized she can do so much more with a ruined reputation, and she intends to make the most of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is really just filler but i wanted to write my favorite sisters interacting


	8. Riverrun

Their party has crossed from the dirt of the Kingsroad to the sinking mud of the River Road when Sansa finally gathers the courage to talk to her betrothed.

Nudging her mare to the side, she turns to look at Bronn and the guards on either side of him. He may be her betrothed, but father is treating him more like a hostage by assigning guards and making sure he is constantly watched.

She is not sure why father is doing this, in truth. Bronn has shown no inclination to run away, and even if he decided too, she does not think the pair of green guards alongside him would prove a challenge.

And if father is concerned about propriety, well, she doesn’t think Ser Bronn would stoop so low as to ignore a refusal. And she would refuse, even knowing that half of Westeros already thinks her a ruined woman.

As her horse ambles closer, Sansa smiles at the guards, noting with detached interest how one flushes, before she speaks.

“You may leave,” she informs them graciously, doing her best to sound like her lady mother.

“My lady,” one of them starts, doubtlessly ready to object, but he quiets at her arch look, nodding his head before the two of them slow their horses.

“You’re getting good at that,” Ser Bronn comments as she rides beside him, a crooked smirk on his face.

“Riding or ordering men about?” Sansa finds herself japing, startled when he chuckles.

“Both, actually.”

“I don’t know why father would assign you guards, anyways-it’s not as though you’d run away,” she says, the lilt at the end making it half a question.

“No,” he replies, amusement plain, “I’m not planning on running away. Besides,” he adds belatedly, “if I did run, two green lads wouldn’t be able to stop me.”

“I thought so,” She replies with a satisfied smile, relieved that he hasn’t taken offence.

The sellsword looks at her sideways for a moment, pushing his horse ahead, before he lets out a short bark of a laugh.

“You’re flattering me,” Bronn tells her, sounding delighted, and Sansa cannot help the flush of red that creeps up her cheeks.

“I am not!” She hotly responds in turn, not noticing the way the guards urge their horses closer at her words. “You’ve spent your life selling your sword for coin, haven’t you? You have to be skilled, or you’d be dead.”

Reaching up to scratch at the stubble with his cheek with one hand, the man stares at her for a moment, seemingly not noticing the way her eyes follow his hand.

“You’re a clever one, milady.”

It’s doubtlessly only because they’re in the presence of her father’s men, but she still frowns at the title.

“It’s Sansa, Ser Bronn.”

She realizes her mistake when the sellsword raises a brow before a decidedly wicked smirk spreads across his face.

“Drop the ‘ser’ and I’ll drop the title.”

“Very well,” she sniffs in her best impression of the queen before breaking and giggling, smiling shyly at the man riding next to her.

Something in his smile makes her feel warm, but it’s a different sort than the heat that builds between her legs. It makes her chest heavy and light and the same time, it makes her feel dazed. Sansa thinks she knows what the feeling is, but she’s not ready to voice it.

Not yet.

* * *

Her hands clench around the reins as the towering walls of Riverrun come into view, gaze turning from the clouded waters of the river running alongside the road to the drawbridge in the distance. 

Taking a small breath, she kicks her horse into motion, spurring the mare on until it reaches the front of the procession. Of course, that spurs Arya on too, her little sister pulling her horse into a canter until they’re side by side.

Stomach churning with unease, she takes another breath and tries to focus.

She does not fear mother’s disapproval. No, Sansa fully expects her to disapprove of Bronn. Rather, she fears mother won’t understand _why_ , won’t understand that she did what was needed.

Father, leading the procession, slows to a stop ahead of her, and Sansa follows suit as they finally cross the creaking bridge.

“Where are they?” Her sister voices before she can, scanning the courtyard for their brothers and mother and seeing neither.

Sansa moves to respond as she dismounts before a noise startles her, and she turns to see a woman striding across the courtyard.

Her heart leaps at the red hair and blue eyes, at seeing mother again after so many months. She wants to go to her, wants to run into her arms, but she resists the urge. She’s not a child anymore, after all.

What draws her eye, though, are the two men standing next to mother. One looks young, though worn, with wispy auburn hair. The other is older, grey and white both staining his cropped beard and longer locks, and at that, recognition dawns.

“Our uncle and great-uncle,” Sansa mutters, turning her gaze to Arya when her sister looks, “Edmure Tully and the Blackfish.”

“Our uncle looks like a craven,” Arya declares with all her characteristic tact, though mercifully she keeps her voice low. “I could take him.”

She should chide Arya for that, should defend the man’s honor simply because he is family. But looking at his build, looking at the way he fidgets and the nervous sneer, Sansa is forced to agree.

“You probably could,” she comments, startling a wide eyed look from Arya before moving forward to greet their mother.

Father is talking to mother, voice low but agitated, and Sansa goes against all her learned courtesies to interrupt, moving forward until the pair are forced to acknowledge her.

“Sansa-” mother starts, voice thick with worry and disbelief, and she remembers the letter father sent. She remembers how he could only say what she did, not why or how-not when they could risk someone reading it.

“This is better discussed in private, mother,” she replies, praying she can hear the underlying plea in her words.

Her mother studies her for a moment, ignoring Edmure’s judging gaze and the Blackfish’s assessing look, before turning to see Bronn. Bronn, who’s smirking at the guard helping him dismount and making a show out of putting his hands up in supplication.

“That’s  _him_?” Mother asks, already deeply disapproving, and Sansa restrains a sigh.

“In private,” she emphasizes again, pleased when mother finally hears.

“We can talk in the lord’s solar. Your grandfather-” mother pauses then, mouth twisting, before speaking, “your grandfather isn’t using it.”

“And Bran and Rickon?” She finds herself asking, gaze focused on mother as she leads their party through the halls.

“Bran is in the library and Rickon is currently doing his best to distract him,” mother replies, gaze still heavy with hostility, and Sansa finds herself exchanging a look with Arya, already dreading what’s sure to be an unpleasant conversation.

 _Mother will understand,_  Sansa swears to herself. _She has to._

* * *

Ned’s letter had been brief and to the point, yet still it left her shaken.

The words themselves made no sense-her sweet Sansa dishonoring their House? Her gentle daughter forgoing her chance to marry a prince to ruin herself with a sellsword? It made no sense! It made no sense, but what Ned didn’t write was even more worrying.

 _The king has ordered the marriage,_  Ned had written in his brief script,  _but there is more I cannot say._

After watching Robert at Winterfell, she wishes she could be surprised. But she isn’t, the man who now wears the crown would punish her daughter for slighting his son. No, what’s far more concerning is  _why._  Why did Sansa do this, what can’t be conveyed through a letter? Thoughts flit through her mind, each more terrible than the last.

Her sweet Sansa looks unharmed, though, and her own relief grows before souring when she catches sight of what must be the sellsword.

Clad in stained leather armor and swaggering as he mocks the guards, Catelyn finds herself frowning as she notices the sword strapped to his waist, the dirk on his back. This man is no knight, no prince, so  _why._

“Mother?” Sansa’s words draw her out of her thoughts as they reach the solar, her father reaching out to pull Arya back from the door, as she absently notices Brynden stop Edmure from following with a look.

The heavy wood of the door thuds shut behind them and Catelyn turns, watching the way her daughter’s hands tremble just slightly, the way her eyes harden.

With a heavy heart and sinking stomach, she sits, knowing whatever tale Sansa tells will not be pleasant.

* * *

She is right.

What Sansa tells her is horrible, made even more horrifying by the way her daughter’s eyes glitter with unshed tears as she describes Joffrey’s depravities, the way her daughter flinches as she speaks of him.

Her lovely daughter is painting the prince to the epitome of a monster, and when she looks to Ned for confirmation her husband only nods.

Eventually, after the whole sordid tale has been told, Catelyn rises, stepping carefully over to Sansa’s seat and placing a gentle hand on her braided hair.

“Why didn’t you ask your father to break the betrothal?”

Sansa huffs, an unladylike snort escaping, before she settles back against her chair. “We both know the king wouldn’t have agreed to it.”

“I’m sorry,” her sweet daughter says then, catching hold of her hand when she draws back to look her in the eyes. “I just-I just didn’t see another way to stop it.”

“And this sellsword?” She asks, knowing that sweet Sansa is keeping something back, though she cannot imagine what.

Sansa meets her eyes, steady and strong, when she finally replies. “I want him, mother.”

She cannot reconcile her sweet girl that dreamed of princes with the woman that came back from King’s Landing. All she wanted was to shield Sansa, to keep her daughter safe, and it seems that wretched city stripped it all away.

At least the marriage will be easier if her daughter truly wants the man.

“We have much to do, then.”

“Mother?”

“There’s the feast, there’s the entertainment-and you’ve grown, I need to adjust your measurements.”

“Catelyn-” her Ned starts, but she fixes him a cool glare.

“Of course we’re having the wedding here, Ned,” she finds herself snapping, voice harsher than intended.

 _After all,_  Catelyn thinks bitterly,  _the king will want to know his demand has been seen too._

“I-” Sansa interrupts, voice faint, “thank you.”

Catelyn can hear what she is not saying, can tell what she is really thanking her for, and it makes her heart ache.

 _You shouldn’t thank me,_  she thinks as she opens the door for Sansa, as she gestures for Edmure and Brynden to follow her in.  _I should have known better, I should have seen what Joffrey was._

_I should have protected you._


	9. Preparations

Her sister has changed, and Arya still doesn’t know if that is good or bad.

Sansa had been awful at Winterfell, had been cruel and thoughtless despite mother’s insistence they learn to live with each other. Her sister had been awful, and Arya had only responded in kind. No matter what stories mother shared of her and Aunt Lysa, no matter the punishments father gave, it seemed like fate that they would never get along.

Oh, Sansa had been a selfish, bitter brat at Winterfell, Arya would be the first to admit. Too preoccupied with her southron ambitions to care about anyone else, too focused on her imaginary image of what a lady should be to care about her own sister’s feelings.

Her sister had been intolerable, insufferable, and all words similar-but she had been happy.

* * *

Arya hadn’t thought much of Sansa’s sudden silence after Lady died, had even thought, in her darkest moments, that it served her right, that it was what she deserved after what she did. Those thoughts flew away after she saw the look on her face when Joffrey kissed her hand. No one deserved to look like that, to feel like that.

They may have their difference, they may have come close to hatred, but her heart still clenches at her sister’s distress. Arya still wants to scream when father talks about the upcoming wedding, still wants to stab a knife through the prince’s hand and watch him bleed when he touches her sister. 

And then the servants are packing away their things while father paces, and then the nobles are laughing and the king is glaring, but no one will explain! No one will explain, not until Sansa leans in close and whispers her fears, not until Arya’s heart clenches at the distress plain on her sister’s face.

This shouldn’t have happened. Sansa shouldn’t have to do this just to avoid Joffrey, Sansa shouldn’t have to marry a man that’s the opposite of everything she wanted just because the king can’t handle his stupid son being denied.

* * *

Sansa japes now, Sansa laughs with her now, but Arya still worries. Arya still remembers the look on Sansa’s face as she spoke of Joffrey, still remembers the poorly hidden fear.

She remembers this, and she fears her sister’s new betrothed will be no better. Sansa doesn’t say anything, not like last time, but she sees the way her sister blushes on the ride to Riverrun, sees the shy smile when the sellsword smirks at her. The signs are there, the affection is plain, and it makes her nervous.

She doesn’t want her only sister to escape one monster just to be landed with another.

* * *

Wedding preparations, Arya decides, are _boring._

Mother had spent the past week hurrying back and forth, sending letters and arranging the banquet seating and a whole host of other boring things. It was sheer luck that mother was too busy to notice when she crept away, luck Arya is grateful for after spending far too long hearing nothing but a quill scratching on parchment.

She tried to spend time with Bran and Rickon but the master-at-arms actually dared to make her leave, and when she tried to find father to protest, he was nowhere to be found.

Now she’s stuck in Sansa’s chambers, watching as her sister adjusts their grandmother’s ivory wedding gown, tucking in the seams and sewing simple patterns along the hem.

“You’re doing it again,” a voice interrupts, then, and she looks up to see Sansa smiling at her.

“What?”

“You’re sighing,” her sister points out, voice almost sing-song, and Arya throws a half-hearted glare her way.

“I’m  _bored_ ,” she complains, kicking out a leg dramatically before sheepishly settling back as Sansa pointedly moves her sewing away.

Her sister hums absently, still focused on her needlework, before speaking up, voice almost a whisper.

“Well, at least you have that luxury.”

Arya finds herself squinting at her sister, wondering what she could mean, before Sansa sets aside the dress and lets out a sigh, leaning back against the chair. 

“You get to do nothing. I have to sew and help mother plan and memorize the guest list. And-I have to do all this while worrying, while trying to convince myself I can make a marriage work.”

“He’s not Joffrey,” Arya speaks up in a poor attempt at comfort, eliciting an exasperated eye roll.

A moment of awkward silence passes, sisters quiet, before she speaks up.

“If he does do something, I’ll hurt him.”

“You will not,” she looks up at that, fixing Arya with an incredulous stare, and that makes Arya puff up in wounded pride. 

“You’re my  _sister,_ ” she emphasizes, keeping her gaze steady. “If he hurts you, I’ll run him through.”

Sansa lets out a startled laugh at that, hand flying to cover her mouth as she snorts, before smiling at her little sister.

“Thank you,” she says, voice fond, and Arya smiles back, pretending not to hear the meaning underneath. 

* * *

It hadn’t made sense when great-uncle Brynden at scoffed at mother inviting the Freys, when uncle Edmure had frowned. After all, the Freys were their bannermen, it would make sense for them to attend.

Yes, she hadn’t understood at all-at least until they arrived and the rodent-faced man in charge had sneered at Sansa and only spared Bran a glance, not even bothering to acknowledge Rickon.

But even then she doesn’t realize how awful they truly are, not until the other bannermen have arrived and she catches them speaking in the corridors.

The other men are wearing the sigil of some house she doesn’t know, and quite frankly, doesn’t care about, but it’s easy enough to recognize someone as ugly as one of the Walders.

“-Rotten,” Arya hears as she creeps closer. “Rotten, the lot of them. The eldest daughter may be a pretty one but the girl is nothing but a ruined whore, and the younger one is a wild bitch. Even the sons are a lost cause, with one a cripple and the other a savage little monster.”

She tries to surge forward at that, ready to teach him a lesson, when a hand snags at her shirt and Arya is pulled back.

Staggering upwards, she glares up at her sister’s betrothed, mouth twisted in a scowl.

“You heard them!” Arya spits out, “You can’t let them get away with that!”

“Of course not,” Ser Bronn agrees, watching the Freys as they walk away, still oblivious to their watchers. “But an accident on the road is safer than a duel.”

Letting out a sigh at her look of confusion, the man turns around and walks off, forcing Arya to follow him.

“If you’re going to hurt them, you have to be smart about it. Does Sansa need you attacking another noble now?”

“No,” she responds sullenly after a moment, anger subsiding slowly.

“Then don’t make a show of it. There’s plenty of ways to hurt someone without them knowing you’re the one behind it.”

Stride stuttering, she stops and thinks of how easily the Freys could find themselves locked in their rooms or stuck outside, of how one misplaced book could cause them to careen down the stairs.

Noticing her sudden smile, Ser Bronn smirks down at her, eyes bright.

“Now you’ve got it.”


	10. Wedding

Marriage was never a possibility. It would be the height of stupidity to even consider it in the slums of King’s Landing, to even consider making the mistake of getting attached. Then, well, it wasn’t like the life of a sellsword lent itself to serious relationships.

Marriage was never in the cards and yet here he is, mere days from standing in a sept and swearing a few vows.

 _Fuck_ , he thinks absently, fingers itching as he drums them on the table. Bronn knows how to kill a man, where to cut to make someone slowly bleed out and how to end a life quickly. He’s put men and women and children alike in the ground. He knows how to kill, he knows how to fuck-he doesn’t know how to be a husband.

At least, not a proper husband. He’s met plenty of men that beat their wives, plenty of men that slept with around. But he has a feeling if he even dared to think of either, the ever so honorable Lord Stark would take his head, never mind the man openly flaunting his own bastard son.

And then there was the matter of swearing off whores. It had been a hasty promise, one motivated by sweet Sansa in his lap, and now he finds himself wondering if he’ll regret it. The only man Sansa had ever shown interest in before was Joffrey, and that golden cunt was the picture of a perfect prince.

Cumming once doesn’t mean her interest will remain, and a man’s got needs. But it’s not like he’d force her, not when that sort of things no fun and he’d lose his cock as soon as she told her father. Draining the goblet of arbor wine and lazily waving down a passing servant, he muses the problem over in his head. Finally he decides there’s nothing to be done. Nothing to do but wait and see if Sansa would want him after the bedding.

* * *

Littlefinger had always claimed Catelyn Stark a beauty. Those words could be dismissed as the claims of a man obsessed, but even Tyrion had made mention of it too.

Right now, though, it’s hard to find anything beautiful about her, not with her pinched face and pursed lips, not with the hard set of her eyes or the way she scowls when she sees her precious daughter sitting next to him.

Catelyn Stark hates him, that much is clear, but Bronn can’t find it in him to care. No, what’s much more interesting is the way Sansa reacts, the way his betrothed stares back at her mother defiantly, eyes hard and mouth firm. She’s doing her best to intimidate and yet she still looks delicate, like one of those sparrows from King’s Landing puffing up to appear larger.

Half listening, it’s easy enough to tune out everything but Sansa’s voice, to idly wonder at the attachment she’s showing, to wonder if she’ll still be fond of him after tonight, when Sansa interrupts her mother.

“The wedding,” she starts, voice hard as steel, “will be held in the godswood.”

“We are in the South,” her mother snaps back, voice half disbelieving, “the king-”

“The king won’t care, not as long as there’s a bedding,” Sansa responds coldly, pale blue eyes hard as she straightens in her seat. “I am a Stark of Winterfell, and I will marry before the old gods alone.”

Only barely holding back a laugh, Bronn tries not to snort on the look of shock on Catelyn Stark’s face.

Stark had to be accustomed to the wildness of the younger girl, but it seems she never knew sweet Sansa had claws of her own.

* * *

Everyone claims it’s bad luck for a groom to see the bride before the wedding. Smallfolk and nobles alike hold to it, though he’s never understood the point. Still, his new  _family_  seems to feel the same, judging by the guards outside Sansa’s chambers refusing to let him in.

Course, that could also be because Catelyn Stark caught him sneaking a kiss the night before the wedding. Whatever the reason, Bronn’s seen no hide or hair of his betrothed or her family-at least until Stark comes a few hours after he attempted to see Sansa.

“Ser Bronn,” the lord is obviously tense, gaze flickering around the small, sparse room they put him in.

“Lord Stark,” he returns neutrally, setting down the dagger he was in the middle of polishing.

“Would you walk with me?” It’s an order, not a request, and so he falls in line, following as his future goodfather leads them to the Godswood.

“Lord Stark!” Bronn says with exaggerated surprise, “I’m flattered, but I think Sansa might be a bit miffed to find you’ve made an honest man of me first-”

“Listen,” Stark practically hisses as he reverts back to the scowl that appears whenever he sees Bronn.

“You are from the South and you may not know our customs…” the lord seems to be having trouble finishing and so he interrupts, eager to get this over with.

“Sansa upset things by insisting on a northern wedding, didn’t she? So you’re here to make sure I don’t fuck it up.”

“I would not have put it that way,” Stark admits after a moment of tense silence, “but yes.”

“So,” he asks, gaze lingering on the red leaves of the weirwood, “what am I supposed to know?”

The Lord pauses, staring up at the weirwood they stand in front of, before shaking his head with a sigh and turning to gaze at him.

“I will lead Sansa to the heart tree. It is tradition for a member of the family to officiate the vows, but given I am escorting Sansa and my son Robb is in Winterfell, Brynden Tully will be reciting them.”

“I will announce Sansa and you will announce yourself. Once Sansa gives her consent, there is a moment of prayer before the weirwood.”

“And then it’s finished,” he replies, looking at Lord Stark.

“And then it is finished.” 

* * *

The light of the setting sun is the only illumination in the godswood, casting shadows on the ground as the hastily assembled crowd of House Tully vassals stares curiously at him.

There is no music like a sept wedding, no warning given before Sansa appears, walking down the line of trees in a gown of ivory silk.

Bronn’s the first to admit he’s no romantic, but his gaze lingers on the way the setting sun catches her hair alight, making it burn like fire.

“Who comes here before the old gods?” The Blackfish calls out, ever present scowl on his face as Lord Stark and Sansa draw near.

“Sansa of House Stark, come here to be wed.” The Lord replies, a matching scowl on his face. “A woman flowered, trueborn and noble. She comes to beg the blessing of the Gods. Who comes to claim her?”

Sansa steps forward then, gently squeezing her father’s arm before turning to look him in the eye.

“Bronn of King’s Landing,” he manages around a dry throat, suddenly acutely aware of what will happen-of knowing he’ll have a  _wife._

“Lady Sansa, will you take this man?” The Blackfish asks, voice carefully neutral as Sansa stares at him. 

“I take this man,” Sansa says, a gentle smile on her painted lips. 

The next step is easy enough, Bronn stepping forward and capturing her lips in a regrettably chaste kiss before Sansa reaches out, tugging him down by the doublet and pressing herself against him.

Fuck, he wants to take her here. Wants to peel away that ivory gown and fuck her against her gods’ own tree. For now, though, he contents himself with an arm around her waist and a scorching kiss.

Tully clears his throat behind them and Bronn finally pulls away, sure he’s smiling like a lackwit at the blissful and hungry look on his new bride’s face.

He follows no gods, old or new, but he still prays as they kneel before the heart tree. He prays for a long summer and a short winter, prays his new family won’t decide to kill him. And, as Sansa reaches out to tangle her fingers with his own, he prays his new wife keeps looking at him like that. 


	11. Bedding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and here's the smut some of you have been waiting for!

Sweet Sansa is worried.

His new bride may have learned to lie during her time in King’s Landing, but even a lackwit could tell she’s not as content as she pretends.

No one could think she was truly fine, not with the way her blue eyes flicker nervously, not with how her back is straight as a board in a futile attempt at seeming calm. 

What she needs is a fight, something to get her blood rushing, something to make her forget about whatever’s put that scared look in her eyes.

His goodmother may actually try to kill him for that, though, and so Bronn takes another route, standing and sweeping down into an exaggerated bow as he looks down at his wife.

“My lady?”

“My lord?” Sansa asks, doing an admirable job of hiding her confusion, and Bronn grins back at her.

“Care to dance?”

There’s surprise in her eyes but she accepts readily enough, even managing a small smile as he pulls her onto the floor with the other dancers.

“Why’re you nervous?” He asks four steps in, inwardly impressed at how Sansa doesn’t even stumble despite the surprise in her eyes.

“What?”

“You’re nervous, girl. You might even be scared.”

Sansa pauses, picking over her words, and he’s content to wait, to have her follow his own footsteps as the hall looks on. “I know what the wedding night involves,” she finally admits, not noticing the way his eyes linger as she sucks at her lower lip, “but it is still something new and something-almost frightening.”

He laughs, low and amused as she looks up at him. “Sometimes I wonder how you nobility even manage to get heirs, with the way you think about fucking,” Bronn comments, smiling at the scandalized look one of the Tully vassals gives him. “None of you seem to know it’s _supposed_  to bring pleasure.”

“I’ve never done it,” Sansa replies defensively, taking control and pulling him along as she moves to avoid another dancer. “Isn’t it natural, to be wary of something you’ve never done? Besides,” she adds, voice quieter, “I’m not-I don’t think I’m ready to be a mother.”

He can’t help it, he laughs, a low chuckle that earns him a glare from Sansa. “Now that’s a problem with an easy solution. Just let me talk to the cooks, and you’ll have all the moon tea you need.”

Biting her lip again, Sansa nods, worry still on her face.

“Relax,” Bronn adds as the song comes to a close, his hand on her waist clutching just a little tighter as he leans down to whisper in her ear, smiling as Sansa shivers. “I know what I’m doing.”

* * *

The bedding is far gentler than Sansa had feared. It may be fear of displeasing the warden of the north or their liege lord, it may be the way her husband casually rested a hand on the dirk on his waist when a Frey made the mistake of shouting something particularly obscene. 

Whatever the reason, the men undressing her are almost hesitant, something Sansa is grateful for.

It is over far quicker than she expected, Sansa stumbling into the empty bedchamber and holding the remains of her torn shift as she looks around. 

She has just enough time to turn and hear a muffled shout when the door swings open and Bronn is pushed in, laughing as he holds up his hands in mock surrender, winking at one of the women outside before the door slams shut behind them.

Her husband turns to face her then, clad in nothing but his breeches and his ever present dirk, and Sansa is suddenly acutely aware of just how bare she is, just how vulnerable.

“Don’t,” he interrupts softly when she moves to tug the tattered shift closer, to cover what she can with her hands. 

Feeling flushed, Sansa can feel her cheeks reddening as he stalks forward, as his appreciative gaze lingers over her body before he suddenly smiles, slow and wicked.

She’s always been tall, and so he barely has to reach down to cup her head in his hands, to press his mouth to her own. Sansa moans without thinking, dropping the tattered remains of her shift to the floor as she moves to touch him. Taking advantage of her open mouth, he slides his tongue in deftly, humming appreciatively as one of her hands rests at his neck, the other tangled in the hair on his chest.

Finally they break apart, Sansa stumbling back as her new husband tosses the sheath of his dagger onto the floor before beginning to unlace his breeches.

“I heard,” she starts to speak up, the fear creeping back in, “I heard I’ll bleed.”

Bronn does laugh at that, pausing in the middle of pulling his breeches down, to look back up at her. “You won’t,” he easily asserts, smirking as her gaze stops at the trail of hair leading down beneath his breeches.

“But-”

He kisses her again, a kiss that makes the heat in between her thighs build higher and higher, before pulling back with a chuckle as she tries to chase his touch.

“You won’t.” Her husband murmurs against her skin as he gently pushes her down onto the bed.

* * *

Sansa trembles beneath his touch, arching up as he traces circles into her stomach, hands moving down and down until he reaches her cunt.

“What are-” she starts before letting out a startled gasp, a smile coming to his face as he licks at her pearl, Sansa moaning as he does.

She’s so  _wet._

Slowly, carefully, he presses his mouth against her cunt, licking up and tasting her sweetness before pulling back, smirking when she whines in frustration.

Part of him wants to tease her, wants to make her beg and plead, but that can come later. For now, all he wants to do is make her scream.

And she does, a hastily muffled shriek as he slowly slides a finger into her dripping cunt, curling it before working up a steady rhythm, a rhythm joined by a his mouth on her wet pussy again.

Easily pulling one of her legs up, Bronn adjusts his position, still keeping his mouth on her folds, still lapping up her juices as Sansa reaches down, hands pulling at his hair in a clear demand for more. He eagerly obliges her, finally pulling his mouth away and earning another whimper before crooking his fingers again, earning a new shriek as she cums, as wetness floods onto his fingers.

Sansa is limp beneath him, legs slack, and he laughs at the look on her face, at her wide blue eyes and swollen, parted lips. 

“It’s not over yet,” Bronn says with a smirk, moving to straddle his wife and letting out a low groan as his cock presses against her folds.

Her hands settled against his shoulders, breath coming in quick bursts as her nails dig into his skin, and he leans down to kiss her again, forcing himself to freeze as Sansa relaxes underneath his lips.

Fuck, he feels like a boy again, doing his best not to cum early as he sinks his cock into her cunt, as she takes him inch by inch.

“No,” Bronn speaks up, grabbing hold of Sansa’s wrist when she moves to cover her mouth. “I want to hear you. I want the whole fucking castle to hear you.”

Gods, she’s beautiful, blue eyes wide and pleading as she nods hesitantly, fingers curling tighter when he finally fills her up.

“Good girl,” he mutters, smirking when Sansa whimpers, walls clutching tight as she writhes around his cock.

“You like that?” Bronn asks, sheer force of will keeping his voice light as he starts to rock back, as her nails dig into his skin. “You want me to talk to you?”

His wife lets out another breathless gasp, nodding as she wraps her legs around him, heel of her foot pressing against his bare ass.

“There’s-” he pants out, “there’s plenty I could say.” Sliding further in, picking up the pace, Bronn leans down, one hand cupping her breast as he sucks at her pale neck. “Look at you,” he tells her, “look at you moaning like a _whore_.”

Sansa does moan again at that, hips snapping up to meet his own as her nails scratch against his skin, scrambling for something to hold onto. 

“Maybe you missed your true calling,” he mutters, pausing to admire the bruise blooming on her skin before she whines in protest, rocking up and into him when he doesn’t move. “Maybe you weren’t meant to be a lady.”

Her breath comes faster as he talks, her hips begin to rock erratically, and he knows she’s close.

“Maybe that’s all you’re good for,” Bronn tells her, feeling his own release draw closer. “Maybe you’re just meant to be  _fucked_.” Reaching down, he trails a finger across her nub, rubbing along her cunt, just rough enough to finally pull her over the edge.

When Sansa cums she does with a scream, a shattered noise that drowns out his own grunt as he finally finds his release, feeling his seed sink into her cunt.

Reluctantly pulling out, he keeps a hand on her waist as he pulls his cock out, feeling her shiver as cum drips onto her thighs.

Basking in the afterglow, Bronn wraps an arm around her, smiling at Sansa as she moves to settle her head on his chest.

“Can-” his wife starts, “can we do that again?”

She startles at his laugh but he only smirks in response to her worried glance, hands settling on her waist.

“I’m getting old,” he freely admits, “I’ll need some time. Just wait till morning and I’ll make you scream again.”


End file.
